Dark History
by Baroness Emma
Summary: Spock and Nyota share some unpleasant family secrets.
**WARNING** \- Some triggers. Nothing graphic, but beware the rating.

 **A/N** \- In honor of everyone who needs their story told. *a quick note to the guest who was wondering about Uhura's background. In this story I have her family from French West Africa. I did this because I actually know some people from there and could accurately convey the voice. I tried it with her from her canon location and I couldn't get it to stick. In my story Tides Of Vulcan, I have her from Kenya, so if you want to see my interpretation of her there, please do so.*

* * *

 **Dark History**

Nyota finally relaxed, sighing into Spock's shoulder while he regained his equilibrium. She rolled away, only to quickly snuggle back into his warmer-than-normal skin. He knew she liked to cuddle through the afterglow, so he allowed the touch, even though his telepathy was usually exhausted with stimulation by this point, making his skin highly sensitive. He had mostly learned to deal with it though, and she had mostly learned not to take it personally when he had to pull away. Mostly.

But this time he was able to handle it, and she lay there against him, idly playing with the few wispy curls of hair on his chest.

Thinking.

She was quiet a long time. Longer than usual, in fact. Normally, she'd be up by now, pacing the room, getting a drink of water or a snack, or trying to convince him to take a shower with her. She held back a sigh. They were married, she was pregnant, and they had just made love - how could there _possibly_ be anything improper about showering together? She winced at the thought, and her mind wandered back to where it had been a minute ago.

She was completely lost in thought by the time he leaned over and buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

"And what are you thinking about, _svail_ Nyota?" he said softly.

Her voice responded dreamily, and almost without her consent, "That I might have been beaten for this, once upon a time."

" _What_?" He gave one bounce on the bed, sat up, and looked down at her, wide-eyed. He was not easy to shock, for obvious reasons, but she had just done it, and very thoroughly.

A sour, regretful knot settled in her stomach. "I'm sorry _adun_. I should not have said that. It is nothing."

He expelled a short breath through his nose - the closest he ever got to a snort - "Nyota, _ashayam_ , you have just informed me - _without context_ , I might add - that you have been imagining yourself being assaulted. This does _not_ count as "nothing"."

She gave a long sigh. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, obviously you do. Or your subconscious does, at least, or else you would not have accidentally - "

She sighed again. Sometimes it was very difficult having a husband who could read your mind. She closed her eyes tight. "One time, long ago, I could have been beaten for this."

"This?"

She nodded, slowly. "For loving you."

He allowed himself a sigh of relief, then lay back down next to her and gathered her into his arms. "Is. . . is that a healthy time to remember, _k'diwa_?"

He knew what she was talking about - no one better. Trust a Vulcan to learn history just as thoroughly as he learned mathematics.

"You know what they say about those who forget history, right Spock?"

He squeezed her softly, "Indeed I do. You are quite correct." He took a breath as if to continue, but paused for a long time. Finally, he asked, very gently, "Are. . . you thinking of something. . . someone. . . in particular?"

She nodded, feeling very small. "Anna Thorpe. A third cousin from way way back. Don't know her real name. Owned by Max Thorpe. She was. . ." She touched her own belly, which was only just starting to show, and she could not say the word. "He beat her until she lost it. And still she loved him - for God knows what reason."

"Stockholm Syndrome was real before it had a name, Nyota."

"I guess so. . . "

"If I may ask, how did your family discover such a connection?"

"Some letters of hers were recovered. And a bit of DNA. Mitochondrial showed she was related to us."

She felt his mind reach out to her. Very, very gently. He was quite determined not to intrude, but he simply had to know if she was alright. Which of course she wasn't. "When did this happen?"

"Anna, or us finding out?"

"Your pardon. I meant you finding out."

She managed a small smile. "It's okay. A few years ago. Before we met. It's. . . well. . . sort of the reason I wasn't much into dating you there for a while. . . it took a long time for me to trust my feelings for. . . for a white man. . ."

A corner of his mouth ticked up in his approximation of a smile. "Completely understandable, of course."

The sour knot of shame in her stomach uncoiled, and she could not hold back a sob. "But. . . but I shouldn't have, I mean, I can't. . . I'm not allowed to feel - "

"Kroykah!" He almost yells, suddenly gripping her shoulders. "No, Nyota, _no_." He does not continue until she gives him eye contact. "You are Human - it is important, _very_ important, for you to feel whatever emotion you need. There are emotions it is very unwise for you to _act_ on, naturally, but _feeling_ them is always allowed. It. . . is a liberty any Vulcan would envy."

The knot breaks down completely, and she lets forth a wave of sobs into his chest. He holds her gently, but keeps his mental distance.

She is thankful.

When the crying has subsided, she looks in his eyes again, more afraid of her next words than any she has said so far. "But. . . Spock," she whispers, "I'm part white."

He blinks and his head tilts - he is interested, not shocked - "Are you indeed?"

"Yes. French. My Great-great grandmother on my father's side was French. Ghislaine Baudin." Her voice wavers as she says the name.

His face remains interested, "And?"

"And. . . and. . ." She searches wildly for words. "It. . . it means I can't hate what happened. It means I'm complicit. It's in my _blood_ \- "

He sighs, and she stops. She's never heard him sigh like that before. He takes her by the shoulders and looks her in the eyes again. "Believe me, Nyota, you can. And you _aren't_. Violence is not genetic. You always have a choice. All it does mean is that you are in the unenviable position of having to denounce certain things about your culture. It isn't easy. But you _can_ do it."

His voice was tight, his eyes suddenly far away. She knew he was remembering a dark Vulcan classroom, or a chilly council chamber. . .

"You. . . you don't feel any differently about me now, do you Spock?"

His eyes turned very tender, and he gave her cheek a feather-light touch. "Of course I do, _k'diwa_. You have another layer now." He buried his nose in her hair, like he loved to do, "You have more depth, more shine - like a pearl. I am only sorry I did not know sooner."

She gave a shuddering breath. She felt the truth of his words, but it was going to be a while before she could believe them. He was absolutely right about one thing though - she did feel like a pearl, in that she felt she was covered by a sheet of something dead. She needed to bury it. All of a sudden she had to move. "I need to get up now, Spock."

He released her, and watched her wriggle out of the bed.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

He lay half under the covers, too caught up in absorbing his wife's revelations to care about a chill.

 _If only I had known sooner._

For a long while that was his only thought - _if only_ \- but finally his logic reasserted itself. It was pointless to regret what was past.

And yet, she regretted what was in her story. She was not Vulcan. Her story was painful, and she thought less of herself because of it.

His first instinct was to meld, and help her work through the problem that way. But, she had concealed the story from him, had deliberately omitted to tell him about it. It was highly likely she wanted her privacy in this matter.

The scent of her was still in his nostrils, and her tears had dried on his skin. _She_ was the important part, not that she hadn't told him something about herself. She was Human. Mental privacy was incredibly important. With his Vulcan heritage, even he could not fully understand how much. He still explicitly asked for consent every time they melded, even though the marriage bond technically made such a gesture unnecessary. He did so because she had asked him to. He had not understood right away, and had attempted to initiate a meld in order to clarify. She had not been amused. It had been their first argument.

A phenomenon he was not anxious to repeat.

It would have to be verbal empathy then, not mental. And a Human story, not a Vulcan one.

He gave a short sigh. He was no storyteller. And the only story of that kind the Human side of his heritage had to tell was. . .

Spock lay perfectly still, listening the the _shirr-shirr_ of the shower Nyota was taking.

His mother had only told him the story once, but that was enough, of course. She'd shown him photographic and written proof of everything. He let the sordid facts roll through his mind.

Racism. Slavery. Rape. Murder. Ugly words for an ugly time. His story might not exactly be a match for Nyota's, but she clearly deserved to know. . .

And their son. She deserved to know now so they could properly teach their son. . .

She would think differently about him after he told her.

At least, he hoped so. . .

He rose quickly, refreshing himself and the bed before she returned. He pulled on his nightclothes, trousers and tunic, and then paused. She enjoyed touching his skin while they "cuddled". He removed the tunic, and lay back down, sliding neatly under the covers this time.

She returned not five minutes later, skin glowing, hair shining, smelling of peaches and jasmine. She smiled at the fresh bedclothes, and slipped in next to him, her hands automatically combing through the hair on his chest. He lowered one hand to caress her belly. She did not smile at this like she usually did.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked, gently.

She shrugged, "A little."

"Good. Because it is my turn to tell a story."

Her eyes widened, suddenly scared. "O. . .okay," she stuttered, "Um. . ."

"Relax Nyota," he said, petting her hair, "It is not so bad as all that."

"O-kay," she said, plainly still not convinced, "Wh. . . ahem! What is it?"

"You know that my maternal grandmother is Jewish, correct?"

"Of course. She made latkes for the wedding, remember? They were amazing."

"Well, an ancestor of hers survived the second world war."

"The. . ." Nyota appeared not to want to say the word. And who could blame her? She whispered it instead. "The Holocaust?"

He nodded, remembering the pictures with eidetic clarity. "Her name was Rebecca Scheinberg. During the war she was a house slave for a group of guards at Auschwitz. She not only saw thousands of her people die in the most awful filth and degeneration possible, she was. . . beaten too. Quite frequently. And from what I understand, that was the least of it."

"Oh."

Nyota absorbed his information quickly, much more quickly than he had done hers.

"But. . . how is this like my story?"

He paused. She deserved to know. "Grandfather Grayson is half German."

"Oh. But, was his family. . .?"

"He has no idea. Even genetic testing can only tell us so much. All that is known for sure is that the village his family was from was bombed entirely into oblivion during the later days of the war."

"Oh. But. . . it's. . . possible?"

"Possible. . . or probable? Who knows? Does it matter now?"

She shook her head and burrowed her face into his chest. An affectation he found most appealing.

"There are stories, I suppose, that every family tries to forget. No matter how many warnings there are against repeating history."

She asked softly, "Do you think Rebecca ever forgot?"

"No."

"Then we shouldn't either."

"No. But we should forgive."

She blinked, and her mouth worked a little. "I. . . don't know if I'm entirely ready for that yet. . ."

He nodded. " _It is hard to forgive others, until you forgive yourself_."

"Surak?"

He nodded again.

"I'll think about it."

"It is all Surak would ask. I will not ask more."

She smiled at him then, and the smile was not bitter. "I love you, Husband."

" _K'hat'n'dlawa adun'a_."

The smile stayed on her face, even as she fell asleep.

* * *

=/\=

* * *

 _Svail_ \- Having a sweet fragrance

 _Adun_ \- Husband

 _Ashayam_ \- Beloved

K'diwa - Dear One

 _Kroykah_ \- Stop immediately!

 _K'hat'n'dlawa_ \- "You are half of my heart and half of my soul."

 _Adun'a_ \- Wife


End file.
